


Something out of a nightmare

by alextheghostdrummer



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, M/M, Nightmare, Pain, Torture, Violence, even after being dead, this is very graphic pls be aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27253615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alextheghostdrummer/pseuds/alextheghostdrummer
Summary: Michael’s eyes were impossibly wide as he took the man before him in his Air Force uniform, a scalpel in hand, behind him there was a small table with a tray filled with medical instruments. Then he noticed there was a huge glass observation window glued to one of the walls, the one opposite to Jesse, inside he noticed man wearing white lab coats, notepads in hand as they observed him googly-eyed, furiously scribbling down notesMichael has an awful Nightmare. Jesse is in it.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31
Collections: Home in your arms





	Something out of a nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to day three of my halloween week ficss! this one is a very tough one 
> 
> warning: graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of torture, graphic descriptions of gore, whump, angst, pain so much pain, blood, body horror. This is absolutely NOT for the faint of heart, I made myself cry and sick while writing this. This is so violent; this is devil-work worthy kind of thing. Please do not read it if you’re sensitive to things described above. If you’re a horror enthusiast, have fun with my wicked work

As he opened his eyes, Michael noticed the harsh white light overhead, and as he looked around he noticed he was in a room, nothing besides himself and four eerily white walls and equally white tiles on the floor. Nothing but hazy white filled his senses, the room smelled of nothing, and he saw nothing but white. He strained his hearing trying to pick out any sounds: nothing. He tried to move but soon notice he was strapped down to a grey metallic table, around his wrists and ankles there were restraints bounding them to the table he laid. His screams were muffled by a metallic y-shaped gag, with a straight metal line covering his mouth.

“They can’t hear you”, Jesse fucking Manes said, as he stood beside the torture table, “It’s a pity, though. I’m about to give them a spectacle”

Michael’s eyes were impossibly wide as he took the man before him in his Air Force uniform, a scalpel in hand, behind him there was a small table with a tray filled with medical instruments. Then he noticed there was a huge glass observation window glued to one of the walls, the one opposite to Jesse, inside he noticed man wearing white lab coats, notepads in hand as they observed him googly-eyed, furiously scribbling down notes. 

“Couldn’t have kept your hands to yourself, could you?”, said his own live boogieman

Michael tries to answer, tries to beg, to plead, to say anything really but his voice is muffled and whatever he is saying is unintelligible, not that Jesse Manes would’ve cared. The airman takes a step further, like a lion stalking his prey, then another, then another until his hip is pressed to the table Michael is laid down, he grabs Michael’s throat and pushes him down hard enough to cause thump sound. His grip is tight and Michael struggles to breathe. Before he lets go he squeezed him even tighter and Michael is sure he’ll pass out, then he relents. He bends his body slightly to the right, lifts his right knee up and fetches a lighter from the pocket in his uniform pants.

“Y’know”, he says as he passes the scalpel’s blade through the small flame, “I thought about this moment for a long time”, his gray blues showing no emotion whatsoever stare at his amber eyes, “You entered my house, corrupted my son- You come to this planet” he looms over Michael’s body, “you come to America to cause our destruction. It’s what you do, you destroy things. But I’m not going to let you, I’m here to stop you. And make no mistake, I will thoroughly enjoy this”, he smiles but there’s nothing there, no emotion, just a blank expression.

He aims the blade lower and lower until it reaches Michael’s chest until it pierces right over his heart, a good couple of inches deep, and he drags the scalpel down, a vertical line, cutting until it reached his stomach. His skin burns like nothing he ever felt, he feels nauseous and the smell of burnt meat fills his nostrils. The blood oozes steadily form the cut and besides the burn sensation there is a sharp pain, like acid corroding his chest. He cries out and writhes in pain, struggling with the shackles around his wrists, he tries to escape but it’s fruitless. He wants to beg, God does he want to, to scream for him to stop but he can’t and his gag suffocates him. After the vertical cut, his torturer takes the scalpel and draws a semicircle around where he first initiated the wound and pulls the flaps of skin apart. He tries to tear the skin apart. Michael can’t do anything but sob violently, his tears stream and burn his eyes, mucus all over his face. Then, as he feels like he will certainly pass out, his blinking slow and sparse between, he closes his eyes and he see nothing but gloom and darkness, he identifies the sound of rustling. He opens his eyes abruptly and around him there’s rubble, humongous pieces of concrete cut in odd shapes, bars of steel settled haphazardly, shards of broken glass around him. And then he sees him, Alex, strapped to a table much like himself, only missing the metal gag, as he spots his beloved, the thump of boots resounds in the room and he sees Jesse walking, strolling towards his youngest son.

“You’ve disappointed me so much”, he tells Alex as he towers over him

“Dad, let him go”, he tells the Masters-Sargent making eye contact with Michael, his brow furrowed in concern though he doesn’t look as terrified as he, himself feels

“Oh, son, I’m done with him for now”, he spares a smug look to his other victim, “It’s you I’m concerned with now”

And with those final words Michael feels a cold, prickly sensation travel down his spine and he shivers, cold sweat breaks across his forehead and he feels nauseous for a whole different reason than the pungent smell of copper and rotten meat, or the feel of his blood pooling over his chest and dripping onto the ground. No, he feels nauseous because he knows deep in his bones that this is it, this is the last he’ll see of Alex’s flawless and warm skin, the last he’ll see of Alex’s light and alive brown eyes. He knows with unwavering certainty that Jesse Manes will murder his own son in front of him. He feels his intestines on fire. Holy fuck.

“Please”, he says, voice muffled, “please don’t do this”, voice aquiver, “please, please. Kill me”, he sobs, ugly and snotty, “Kill me!”, he repeats with a scream but Jesse doesn’t listen, he’s not sure he can hear him. He feels desperate and so, so frightened.

Suddenly he sees rapid movement, a swing and then a holler like nothing else he’s ever heard, ear-splitting, horrified, his vision is foggy he sees shapes and colors; two colors: white and red. Quickly his vision adjusts itself in time to see Jesse dragging the scalpel which doubled in size, across the extension of Alex’s entire chest, starting at his throat all the way to his groin. The blade is so deep inside Alex’s body he only sees a tiny bit sticking out, and the blood gushes out and it paints Jesse’s face and uniform and Michael’s entire body. His blood and Alex’s are a vicious, ungodly mix on his body and all around him.

He trashes on the table, restraints digging into his wrists and ankles enough to draw blood from them too. And he cries, the sounds that come out of his mouth are equally jarring to the sound of half of Alex’s body splitting in two. And God it’s an awful sickening sound. He bawls his eyes out and writhes, calling _Alex, Alex, Alex please. Oh my God. Please, oh God, please. Please. Alex. ___

__His vision blurs out once more, the unforgiving light form the torture room blinding him again. Alex name falls out his mouth like a mantra, a woeful, heart-wrenching prayer for him to somehow to be alive. He isn’t. Lifeless wide eyes, mouth agape, body simmering in blood: Alex is dead._ _

__Clean pristine white walls shift to grey-schemed rubble in the blink of an eye, then back. And Jesse Manes smiles, his grin is devilish, something out of a nightmare. The scenario shifts like a disorienting glitch. Back and forth, back and forth. In the distance he hears his name, the calling competes with the sound of his racing heart, beating jack-rabbit fast. But then as he felt like falling down an endless dark pit the voice grew louder._ _

__He jolts awake and beside him in the dimly lit room he sees a form he’d always recognize, in his dreams or nightmares._ _

__“Alex”, he croaks with a quivering breath_ _

__“Michael, are you okay?”, he shifts closer, “I’ve been calling your name for a solid 5 minutes. You were crying and whimpering, then you started whispering my name and I knew it was a nightmare”_ _

__He feels it, the dampness in his skin, a mix of tears and sweat. He is still shaking, the images flash by his eyes, a mix of gore and sadness he won’t ever want to experience again._ _

__“I-“, he can’t even begin to explain what happened and nor does he want to. He’d rather bury his nightmare deep within his brain, seven feet under or deeper. Tears fill his eyes, the sheer terror of seeing Alex dead is still raw._ _

__“Shhh…”, Alex silences him probably sensing his distress, “We don’t have to talk about it. Is it ok if I hold you?”, he asks like doesn’t already know the answer_ _

__Michael nods jerkily, needing to feel that comfort, needing to feel his boyfriend’s warmth because he remembers vividly how he stared into his lifeless eyes, and he just, he can’t, he can’t lose him, not like that, especially like that, which is good because Jesse Manes is dead. He is fucking dead and unless he hasn’t risen from his grave like an actual fucking horror flick than he is fucking deceased. Dead. Muerto. Period._ _

__A tender hand in his hair brings his racing thoughts to a halt. Alex cradles his face softly and nudges him to snuggle closer until they’re pressed flushed against each other, Michael’s head over his heart, listening the thumps of his beating, lively heart. _He is alive, he is safe, we are safe _, he reminds himself. Alex’s fingers card through his hair and he hums, gently holding him over his body. The dichotomy between his nightmare and reality is jarring at best, but still ghost of despair and pain creeps from a dark corner in his mind, so focusing on Alex’s heart, skin, voice, touch is the best he can do.___ _

____He won’t fall asleep but he knows deep within his bones that his place is here, next to Alex._ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> please feel free to share your thoughts!  
> i'm on tumblr @alextheghostdrummer


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